


Confrontational

by The Primera Haruoka (TenshiEren14)



Category: Persona 5, Shin Megami Tensei: Devil Survivor 2
Genre: AU where Akira's parents are Yamato and Hibiki, Akira is 18, Dealing with family things, Family Fluff, Gen, Morgana deals with a lot of, The YamaHibi's mentioned and established!, Yamato's unintentionally terrifying, because of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenshiEren14/pseuds/The%20Primera%20Haruoka
Summary: Akira's managed to keep his head down despite the whole Phantom Thief thing--done pretty well for himself all things considered. He has a good place to sleep at night, is performing well in school, even has enough money to buy himself nice things with the amount of odd jobs he takes. He's comfortable.Comfort tends to make us careless.
Relationships: Hotsuin Yamato & Kurusu Akira, Hotsuin Yamato/Hibiki Kuze, Hotsuin Yamato/Protagonist (Devil Survivor 2), Kurusu Akira & Morgana, Morgana & Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 84





	Confrontational

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how to describe this other than "I really like the idea of Yamato and Hibiki raising Akira but I'm not going to write any of the formative years because that sounds boring so instead I'll just do bits and pieces of Akira's upbringing showing up in the plot of P5". Other, more general notes? Akira's had a pretty good childhood seeing as both his parents are huge governmental figures, Akira's the heir to the Dragon Stream, naturally, but that doesn't really matter for this drabble and other than Shido literally ruining his life, he doesn't really have much resentment for adults. 
> 
> If you've never played Devil Survivor 2, first of all, please do! It's an excellent game and secondly, there's not much DeSu 2 jargon used--everything's set in the world of P5 other than Yamato and Makoto (Sako not Nijima). I can't really promise things won't become more DeSu 2 aligned later on (for matters such as the whole Dragon Stream thing and a couple other things) but again, none of that's particularly relevant for this piece. 
> 
> All of that's to say, of course, please enjoy.

It’s late when Yamato finds him. 

July is just beginning yet humidity clings to every inch of his body, fogging up his pores with an uncomfortable mugginess that’s only made sweltering by the pots and pans overflowing on the stoves before him. It’s a relatively slow night at the Beef Bowl Shop; there had only been a handful of regulars due to the rain but even the borderline depressing trickle of customers felt akin to a horde when Akira had to fulfil every role to the patrons. It was only by happenstance that he managed to recognise Yamato’s distinctive voice against the din of night-time chatter and pouring rain. 

“Just water. Bottled preferably.”

It’s automatic for him to simply focus on the order, he needed to if he wanted to have any chance at getting things done in both a timely and accurate manner and so he doesn’t think about the smoothness of the voice of the vague alarm bells whirring to life in his mind. He simply brushes past Morgana’s perch and plucks a bottled water from the small fridge tucked away behind the counter of the bar, giving it to the faceless, nameless customer with what he hoped was an amicable smile and a soft, “That’ll be ¥100.”

It doesn’t help that Yamato simply pays quietly and proceeds to sit equally as silent as he leisurely sips at his water. It didn’t help that he was completely at peace with the idea of letting his presence go unnoticed as he counted down the hours on his designer watch (and if that didn’t prove that he was in Shibuya alone, Akira wasn’t sure what would. Hibiki would’ve at least told him to be discreet about it) with a neutral frown and severe eyes. 

It’s not until he’s washing up the last of the wares for the night that Morgana finally peeps up, his striking blue eyes trained on the man who was still sitting at the bar as though he was born to be perched atop a creaky wooden stool in traitorous heat and the dank of steamed pork and beef. For the first time since the night had begun, Akira allows himself the luxury of putting a face to a customer and finds himself regretting it instantaneously. 

Yamato Kuze-Hotsuin hadn’t changed at all in the handful of months in which Akira had been away. He looked different in his semi-casual grey button up but the sharpness of his features, the intensity of his gaze, the delicate curve of his hair against his angular jaw; it was all the same. 

He’s vaguely aware that his breathing has sped up, that he’s probably panicking because the last person he expected to see in some hole-in-the-wall beef bowl shack was his illustrious father but his mind can’t quite make the mental jump to connect the reality before him with the knowledge already present inside of his head. Morgana’s concerned calls are fuzzed as they enter his ear, unimportant in the face of the calm dominance radiating off of Yamato’s figure as those smouldering silk-coloured eyes catch his own unfocused gaze. 

Yamato doesn’t smile. If anything, his neutral frown dips into the territory of displeasure. 

Akira’s heart hammers away in his ear, his voice stuck in his throat in a way that was as foreign as it was terrifying. 

“Akira, who is that?” Morgana’s voice is uncomfortably close, apparently at some point he had perched himself upon Akira’s shoulders, uncaring of the ramifications of an animal being caught at a food establishment.   
Akira took a short breath, his nerves too anxious for anything deeper. Yamato leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows as he kept his gaze trained on Akira, evidently waiting for him to say something to explain the torrid display in front of him. 

“F-Father…”

* * *

It’s a small mercy that Yamato waits for his shift to end before properly confronting him. His father had always been a bit on the shorter side and even now with Akira perfectly matching his height, he was no less intimidating than when Akira had been a child. It was the eyes, Akira thought. Yamato’s gaze had a distinct way of making one feel as though they were less than garbage beneath his booted feet and in situations like this, where Akira was surely in for an earful if not an actual physical penance, that gaze was a thousandfold more lethal. 

The unavoidable truth was that Akira had told no one of his circumstances that dark night. He didn’t think that the mystery man would  _ actually _ press charges against a student and by the time his parents had come to the station, he had already had his mugshots taken and was halfway through an in depth tongue lashing from less than gentle officers about the penalties for assaulting such a ‘venerated member of high society’. 

Before he had had a chance to talk things over with his fathers, there had already been a hearing and he had become a convicted felon. Of course, his parents had staunchly refused to sign the probation paperwork but in the end, Akira had simply elected to run, unwilling to deal with the suffocation of his circumstances any longer. He had always meant to give his father a call or send his dad a text or, hell, even message Uncle Daichi but then the Phantom Thieves happened and in all the hectic madness of his new friends and new life, his unresolved responsibilities had slipped out of his mind. 

Now, there was no place for him to run. 

Yamato was standing outside the Beef Bowl Shop, his attention focused on his phone despite the raindrops splattering onto the fabric of his slacks. He looked up as soon as the shuffling of Akira’s umbrella was audible, his eyes seeming to burn against the hazy city lights, “Akira.”

The boy in question flinched. In a nervous motion, one unusually timid given his usual disposition, he opened the umbrella and averted his eyes, “Do you want to share?”

His father would undoubtedly refuse, the irritation smouldering just past the veil of his eyes would see to it. 

Surprisingly, he only gave Akira a glance as he pulled his own umbrella from against the wall of the shop, pointedly opening it and stepping out under the shower with an expression that clearly stated that he would be following Akira for the rest of the night. Akira took the cue and began walking, a bit unnerved at Yamato’s silence behind him. It was unlike him to hold his tongue for this long, stranger still for him to be yielding enough to  _ allow _ Akira to lead the way instead of instantly dragging him off to whatever hotel he was staying at to lombast him with questions and thinly veiled accusations. 

“I’m not taking public transportation.”

Of course. The sudden break of the tentative quiet between them had been unexpected but not unwelcome. Yamato would probably prefer to have each individual hair on his head plucked than step foot on anything even remotely resembling the subway system, more because of his upbringing than because of any personal issues with trains. Akira turned to regard him, the nostalgic feeling in his stomach swelling a bit at the consternated face his father was pulling, “It’s the only way to get to Yongen.”

“Surely there's a taxi service to Yongen-Jaya.”

Akira quietly shook his head. 

Yamato doesn’t make a sound as undignified as a huff but it’s definitely a near thing. He turns his attention to his phone, tapping away for a couple minutes before situating himself beside Akira, “Our ride will be here briefly.” 

And then there is silence between them. 

A heavy, asphyxiating silence, uncomfortable and judgmental and dismissing all at once. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” 

Akira only speaks because he’s certain his ears would begin to bleed if he left the pressure between them unbreached any longer. He can deal with his father’s heavy, disapproving stare, he’s comfortable with being yelled at or at least, being scolded for running away without having the decency to call either of his parents at least once. He didn’t want to think about what it would mean if he had managed to disappoint his father so much that he couldn’t even bare to speak to him. He didn’t want to think about the betrayal that was no doubt stinging at his dad who had probably spent the better half of the past four or so months blaming himself for his son’s cowardice. He didn’t know what he would do with that kind of guilt yet. 

Yamato didn’t bother to look at him, choosing instead to fiddle about with his phone again, “What do you want me to say?”

Akira fiddles with the strands of his unkempt fringe, painfully aware of his lackluster appearance now that he was standing next to his father and his pristine form. He gave a helpless little shrug, momentarily forgetting that the motion would jostle Morgana who was still hidden away in his bag, “I-I’m not sure? I just--”

A delicate palm halted his words. Yamato’s stare was heavy on his skin, a physical thing that made him want to recoil from the sheer weight of it, “There is no excuse for this, Akira.”

The flair of indignance rose in his breast, a whisper in the back of his mind that sounded remarkably like Arsene’s confident dulcet. Akira squashed it down. Yamato wasn’t some corrupt adult he could steal the heart of, Yamato wasn’t even the wrong one in this face-off; the simple truth was that Akira had messed up and his father was mad at him for said mistake. There was no need to complicate it.

The rain between them felt imposing, a white noise that rushed in to fill the awkward space in-between their umbrellas. Yamato wouldn’t stop glancing at his phone. 

Akira was convinced Hibiki was on the other end. 

“Hey, Akira,” Morgana knew better than to poke his head out when he was in such close proximity to another person, but his voice rumbled through the material of his bag, a mellifluous purr that anchored Akira in the present, “Is that guy really your father?” 

He nodded, forgetting for a moment that Morgana would be unable to see the gesture. A car pulled up in front of them; sleek, dark, illegally tinted windows, something neat and angular and altogether incredibly reminiscent of Yamato himself. The man in question waited patiently as the driver got out, another non-descript black umbrella bobbing its way under the summer Shibuya showers and though Akira should’ve expected it, he wasn’t quite ready to be faced with Makoto Sako’s stern face. 

Yamato didn’t go anywhere without her, a loyal General befitting the broad back of a Commander forging a path into a future Akira had never really been able to grasp. He remembers Makoto staying for long weekends in their home, remembers her soft smiles when she awkwardly petted his hair on his eleventh birthday after he skinned his knees sliding down the bannisters in the JPs building. Here, on the backdrop of Central Street’s claustrophobic lights, Makoto looked every bit as stoic and professional as his father did. He noticed her eyes catch on his figure, noticed the way she stared at him even as she kept her head bowed as Yamato stepped into the open car. Akira supposed this was what it meant to be truly adult. 

She kept the door open for him, saying nothing as he bent his head and shuffled into the luxurious warm leathers of the car seat. This was a company car. Akira could tell by the minted smell, like fresh plastic off the press. Yamato’s car always smelled faintly of Hibiki’s cologne and mint. Makoto didn’t own a car, still preferring to bike around when she wasn’t playing chauffeur. 

He carefully placed his bag into his laps, shaking out the stray raindrops caught in his bangs and doing his best not to meet Morgana’s curious stare. 

Makoto closed the door and suddenly Akira was even  _ more _ aware of his father beside him. 

Whatever Yamato was doing on his phone was demanding a great amount of his attention. His pale eyebrows weren’t quite furrowed but his neutral frown was beginning to become an impatient curl of thin lips. His phone was silenced, so his thumb-taps were rhythmic insomuch as they collided with the screen but Akira still felt like he was being watched. Judged. Like the space in between them in a too-warm car would ignite and match the anxious heat swelling in his chest. 

The front door closed and Makoto buckled herself in, adjusting her rearview mirror just a smidge before pulling out. 

“Sheesh, talk about a warm reception.” 

Morgana’s sudden, dry voice startled him enough to send him flinching. Without thinking, he smothered the bag with his hands, whipping his head over to his father and swallowing heavily when those glinting metallic eyes met his. Morgana protested over the force of his hands on his body but he really didn’t understand. Yamato wasn’t particularly fond of animals if memory served, a cat in a company car? Akira wouldn’t be able to handle it if he managed to upset or disappoint his father even more than he already had.   
“Akira, let go of the cat.” 

Yamato’s low voice was just as startling, his heart galloping about his chest. He smothered Morgana further, crushing the bag under his sweaty palms until he felt the curves of Morgana’s body kiss his fingertips, until he could feel the air dribbling out from the spaces between the zipper’s teeth. 

“ _ Akira _ .” 

The bag was slipped from his grip, fingers crushing air as he pulled his hands against his stomach and curled in on himself ever so slightly. Yamato opened the bag and Morgana leaped out, fur frazzled and eyes righteously agitated. 

“What the matter with you?!” he cried, sitting himself back in Akira’s laps despite the anger in his voice, “You coulda killed me!” 

Dimly, Akira heard Makoto’s voice through the roar cresting in his ears, something demure and coloured ever so slightly with disbelief. He squeezed his eyes shut, wringing his hands together in the sweaty fabric of his shirt, “‘m sorry.” 

“Are you alright, Akira?” 

And wasn’t that a joke he never thought he’d get to hear. His father’s voice wasn’t soft, it rarely was when Hibiki wasn’t around, but it was concerned; a mindfulness that Akira had not experienced from another adult since he had been shipped here to Yongen and had his life stripped away from him because of his hero’s complex and a shitty man with too much power. 

“Sako, pull over.” 

“Sir, we’re approaching the freeway-” 

“Pull. Over.” 

Morgana slipped off of him choosing to nuzzle against his arm and Akira finally remembered to breathe. 

“Akira?” Yamato’s hands were tight by his side, like he was restraining himself and it just brought another wave of guilt. Akira hadn’t wanted his parents to have to deal with the fallout of having a registered felon under their roof. He knew both Yamato and Hibiki held high governmental positions, knew that the bad press would be trying on them both. Even so, he’d had no excuse to  _ run _ . 

“I was a coward,” he said--spat really. And the words burned his tongue on their way out, had his jaw loose with thoughts and excuses and feelings he had stuffed into a box and buried like the junk stored in Sojiro’s attic, “I-I  _ ran away _ . W-why aren’t you mad at me?” 

He could feel his pulse in his ears, dug his fingers so deeply into his shirt that he could feel his blunt fingernails scratch against his stomach. 

“You’re exactly correct, you ran.” Yamato murmured, his voice calm, precise like it always was. Akira felt his organs knot, “And for a while, I was angry. At you, yes--naturally--but I was also--” He hesitated. Cut himself off and breathed deeply like he was trying to find the right words or the right feelings or just wishing for Hibiki’s hand to hold so he felt less out of his depth. For the first time, Yamato seemed just as unbalanced as Akira felt, a stilted silence falling between them for a second too long. 

“It’s been months,” Yamato said instead, changing tactics, “Why would I still be angry?” 

And this was something Akira had never forgotten, the look in Yamato’s eyes when Akira managed to overhear his ramblings about useless subordinates, about the lesser, the cowardly, the  _ weak _ . 

“You hate cowards,” Akira mumbled. 

The air between them froze. They both knew what had been said was nothing but unequivocal truth. 

Yamato’s hand was cold on his shoulder, the contact more surprising than it was uncomfortable. The gloves were on, of course, Akira was sure Yamato would burn his fingertips clean off if he touched anything without the buffer, but still it was an effort. A Herculean one. “I never hated you, Akira.” 

The rapid clenching beneath his skin untied itself, bringing with it a long awaited exhalation. Like a child, Akira stuffed his head against Yamato’s thin chest, buried himself into the cold, terse fabric and apologized until his throat was raw and scratchy. His father was not a perfect man, furthest thing from all things considered, but his heartbeat was strong and his hold was grounding and the way his long fingers played with the ends of his hair reminded him that good people still existed in the artificial maze of Tokyo.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr @gingermintpepper


End file.
